He eats by candlelight
On most winter nights.
His mama didn't raise him
To live this way--
Cold soup from a can
And a peanut butter sandwich.
No jam this night.
Yes, the dry river bed is cold,
And no, the varmints don't mind,
Neither the bamboo, nor the sagebrush
Nor any other kind of life
That was first designed
To live along the once mighty river--
The river that runs with dust
Not fish.
The river that in another place
And time
Could feed a hungry man.